


King and Exhile

by BloodEarthAndInk



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 10:43:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10683666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodEarthAndInk/pseuds/BloodEarthAndInk
Summary: "I write this in order that I may better make some sense of this days events. I am only half-assured that they truly happened, and were not a vision sent by Irmo, though to what purpose that would be I cannot say. The man I met today was no Vala, no Maia, not even a servant of Morringotto's. Of that atleast I am assured. From what I have seen, I do not believe he was a being of this world at all, though how that is possible, I cannot even grasp."





	King and Exhile

_The fire is burning in the hearth, kindling snapping and sparking as I watch it. Down below I can hear the voices floating up from the common room, a murmuring buzz interrupted suddenly by a ringing roll of laughter. Focus, Makalurë, focus. This is what is real. This is what is true._

A long sigh snaked it's way out through Maglor's nose as he paced. Down from the headboard of his bed towards the window that looked out across the township below and the shoreline beyond that, back up towards his bed again. His fingers gripped the pale ash wood, clinging to it as though if he did not it would disappear out from under him in the next moment. Or he would. The elf shut his eyes, attempting yet once more to calm his spinning thoughts.

_Madness!_ This was utter _madness!_ He gave his head a sharp shake, pushed off away from the bed again...only to stop. Only to rake a hand up through the mop of hair that was falling over his eyes, and turn back. He sank down onto the bed, staring across the room and into the crackling fire of the hearth.

If he was going mad – well and truly _insane –_ it wouldn't have surprised him. How many people had insinuated that already of he and his brothers? The Fëanárions, fell and fay and bloodthirsty. The reputation was not unwarranted, and perhaps now...perhaps ages of solitude, perhaps the weight of his deeds constantly replayed in his mind and lamented in his songs, perhaps they had finally pushed him over the edge and he could no longer tell what is real from what is a dream. That was why he had come, wasn't it? For the shear _normality_ of this place, for those chattering voices downstairs assuring him that there were other people here, because...because...because he needed _some_ grounding in order to sort out his thoughts and the events of the past few hours.

Maglor reached for the harp that leaned against the foot of his bed, only realizing what he was doing as his hands brushed over the worn leather of it's case. He blinked, snatching his hand away as from a viper, stood up, and began pacing again.

It was like...it was like...how even to describe it? The earth he had walked upon these past _Ages_ now felt as if it were no more solid or stable than a sheet of _rain_. As if were is a mere _painting_ set over the surface of actual reality and he was only realizing that at this very moment. It felt like...

He remembered those moments just before a battle. That dread assurance that hung all of his brothers, that he had seen reflected in Maitimo's eyes and that whispered at the back of his mind. ' _Today one of you will die.'_ Only that Maglor did not think _was_ going to die, and that disturbed him all the more.

Madness.

Maglor shook his head, a new look of determination suddenly settling over his features. He settled himself against the wall beside his bed. Reached into his harp case, pulled out an old journal bound in cracked and flaking leather, a pen, a well of ink.

_I write this in order that I may better make some sense of this days events,_ He scrawled after flipping through the book and coming to the first blank page he saw, _I am only half-assured that they truly happened, and were not a vision sent by Irmo, though to what purpose that would be I cannot say. The man I met today was no Vala, no Maia, not even a servant of Morringotto's. Of that at least I am assured. From what I have seen, I do not believe he was a being of_ _ **this world**_ _at all, though how that is possible, I cannot even grasp._

_But no, no. I start at the ending. Ai! A proper bard I am! Let me start over again, and I shall tell this story from it's start..._

 

~*~

 

I was pushed to the edges of town by a shrieking welter Ossë flung cascading against the shore. The first rumblings of thunder warned me of the gathering storm, but only too late. I was soaked to the blood, my vision blurred by sea and salt as I pushed through the door of the nearest shelter I could find, stumbling into the dark. It stood a forgotten old shack, a crumbling shell of stone and mortar who's exposed beams groaned and creaked in the keening wind. The door snapped, thrown against the wall, clattering on it's hinges. The rain was blowing inside and lashing against my skin, cutting through my clothes.

Before me loomed a void of shadows. I stood there, fingers twitching, body shaking, blood rushing through my veins. Gulping down the air, I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment before forcing my breath to slow. Absently, I tugged at the leather strap of my harp case, biting into my shoulder. As my eyes began to adjust to the light, I began to edge further inside.

The lines of the walls emerged only gradually, picked out in the rain-soaked light that dripped through the shattered, decaying shingling and thatch of the roof. It smelled of brine and mildew, loam and the forgotten dust of decades, and the ground was slick beneath my feet with the overgrown ivy that seemed to be all that was holding this place together. Still, I thought as I surveyed what would become my home for the next several hours, it was a shelter. It would keep me dry. Pushing back a string of hair slicked down against my face, I peered out the nearest window – cracked and fogged over with a layer of grime. The waves were throwing themselves upon the cliffs, battering over their sheer faces. It would do, for now.

With a nod to myself, I began to settle in. I set about getting a fire going with whatever fallen wood and encroaching plant life I could gather. The ever-present drone of the rain just outside became a companion to me as I stacked my megre kindling, and pulled out an old flint and steel to strike a spark to life. Before the silence could wrap it's way around me, I reached back and pulled my harp free from it's case. I stretched my hands, attempting to press some life back into my fingers, gone stiff and cold in the rain. For a while my harp only lay in my lap as I stared down at it. I will never be able to match the music I once could make, but I have improved over the centuries, nevertheless. I have learned to play around the scars.

Reaching for the instrument, I traced along the knotting branches and climbers Amil carved into it's frame, indulging in memory for a passing moment before my hands to drifted to the strings. I did not play much of anything at first, so much as allow my fingers to trace out whatever scraps of melody and song had lodged themselves in my mind, spinning and twisting through my thoughts and refusing to leave me any other way. An old reel remembered from a tavern in Tirion became an easterling folk song taught to me once by Borlach, which itself morphed into a canson I picked up from a troubadour in France during the 13th century, which turned finally to a ballad of Robin Hood.

It does not matter where it began, really. In the end it turned as it always does to the same place. Hollow visions of pining love and heroic thieves faded before my eyes into leaping flames and crashing waves. Clashing swords and battlecries. The wet, gurgling moans of the dead. My hands were slickened again by fresh blood, warm and clinging. I could _taste it on my lips,_ salt and iron. My tongue had become lead, even as I sang. A hot, burning spike pushing up through my throat was strangling me. It never becomes easier. No matter how many times you play out the events in your mind, no matter how you rationalize it and try to excuse it, no matter how many years you spend wandering the shores in lament for you deeds. That whisper is still always there at the back of your mind. _You've done this. Thrice over, you've done this. Men and woman's lives were ruined and ended because of you, and there is nothing you can do to escape from it, nothing you can do to atone for it._

When my voice finally broke, my eyes were burning, my vision blurred again. I shook myself, dragging a hand across my face to brush the tears away. The music fell silent.

And a new sound rushed in to replace it.

Ivy leaves clattered against one another, soft footfalls rising from the floor.

I shot upright, my hand darting back toward my hip.

“Do not stop on my account.” The words were murmured softly, seeming almost distracted.

It was a voice that made me go cold. An accent peculiar not in it's _strangeness,_ yet in it's familiarity. Languages grow over time, languages change, languages _die._ If I was not paying attention I might have said he sounded almost like a Geordie. But there was more to it. There was a lilt carried over from across icy northern seas, a pronunciation that leaned more towards the french...

It was an accent I knew. An accent I had not heard for over 400 years.

This man spoke with the voice of a ghost.

But there was even more to it than that, as I slowly turned a glance over my shoulder. _Was he speaking to – ?_ As I caught sight of the man I pushed myself back to my feet. I was the only other in here...

“You can see me?”

He turned from examining the tarnished glass of the mirror behind him to quirk a brow. “Should I be unable to?”

My eyes narrowed and I stared at him, silent. I had been faded for years beyond count. If I put the effort into it, I would become visible to certain men, but it has been so long since I have been given reason to do so...

The Mortal's attention had already gone towards surveying his surroundings, as I had done not so long before. The surety in his step was what grabbed me first. The set of his shoulders, carrying a confidence and cool authority that twisted at my gut, striking me with a strange familiarity.

As he stepped into the firelight I saw that he stood at a level with me – tall, then, for a mortal. He was built more like a poet than any who had experienced hard labor. Pale, with fine-boned, sharply handsome features and dressed as any fashionable gentleman might be, he was the picture of a dandy. That is, save for his hair. It hung long and dark as any Noldo's, reaching past his shoulders.

With a movement so sudden as to be almost _whimsical_ he was turning on me, fixing me with those eyes again, who's light could not help but remind me of Atar.

“We are in England?” He asked.

My eyes narrowed at him. I blinked. “Yorkshire...” I murmured. What kind of a man was unaware of which _country_ he traveled through? In _this_ day and age?

His hair was completely dry, I was noticing, his boots unmuddied, the immaculate black great-coat he wore untouched by the weather. Outside, the rain still battered against the walls.

Brows drawing together, a frown just beginning to twitch at his lips, the man shook his head, waving off my words as though they were somehow wrong or impossible. My own lips pressed together into a hard line, watching this, and despite all the rest of the strangeness that surrounded him a sharp snort escaped me. If he had noticed – or rather _cared to_ notice – he gave no sign.

Shaking my head, I turned back to my harp, determined to ignore the man and gain back whatever peace I could until the rain stopped and my new companion would hopefully be on his way.

He was standing by the window now, his head turned to the side as he stared out at the churning waves. His frown deepened.

I gritted my teeth. My gaze hardened, fixing to my harp. Despite myself, however, the question still came. “What is it?”

At first he did not answer me. The silence stretched on between us, my pride pricked. But even as I was turning to face the man, to stare him fully in the eye, his voice reached me. “I can hear it...it _sings_ , and yet I do not _understand_...” His eyes lingered on my ears as he spoke, before he suddenly shook his head, waving off those words as well. Already he was turning away again, glancing back towards the mirror. I could have sworn he murmured, “I've taken a wrong turn...”

The hair at the back of my neck prickled. Had I not known better I would have assumed he could hear the Song, still lingering in Ulmo's waters even in this far-flung Age. But that was madness, surely...

“Town's a bit of a way's on.” I grunted, and if I sounded distracted, I cannot be judged for it, “If you're lost perhaps you can find someone – ”

“I will find my way,” He looked back to me, lips taking on an ironic twist. “I know the road.”

By now bloody Noldorin curiosity was gnawing even at my too-cynical mind. _“_ Who are you?” I found myself asking.

His head cocked to the side. No word spoken. The man reached out his hand. Towards me? No. _Behind_ me. The warm, resonate sounds of my harp turned my drew my attention, guiding my eyes as though pulled by a string. A few notes came at first, quickly building as they curled off from the instruments stings into a wild reel. A melancholy tinge edged it's sound. The room's atmosphere shifted, as though a door were opening somewhere I could not see. And from the edge of my hearing, as though _through_ that door, from another _world_ entirely there came a voice...

 

_Cold and light pierced through me. A low murmur rose in my ears, building and building until it spilled through my entire body, ringing through my bones, thudding with my heart, pounding through my head._

_And then, it stopped._

_I took in a sharp breath. Blinked, staring at the world layed out before me. Beneath me, the heat and tensed muscle, the controlled power of a warhorse. Iron links clinked and rang against one another with my every move, the all-too-familiar weight of mail stretched over my shoulders. My stomach clenched, reigns biting into my hands as I moved irresistibly forward. Men and horses, their shouts and snorts and whinnies flowed in a tide around me. They to were dressed in mail, with helm upon their heads, carrying long shields. **An army...**_

_As I realized what was happening, only more questions sprang to mind. In my life, I had met no Mortal Man who could create such visions through song. And where was I, what was **this?** The sky above glowed white behind the clouds, the earth below crackled with a layer of frost. Memories from centuries past tugged at my mind. Normans, these men were Normans, by their shields and by their voices I could recognize them. But what battle –_

_The men froze. I froze. The burning cold, carried by the wind cut down through my bones. And something more...Mere music. I thought, at first, the sounds of the song returning to me, that was all. But no. Not...not **this.** The high trilling of a flute. Quiet, distant, yet as clear as though it rang in my own mind. The men glanced up, heads whipping from side to side. No one dare speak. A near silence spread over the field._

_And then the first whinny broke through. The noise and chaos cascaded in from then. Horses shrieked, rearing back, their hooves thundering against the earth, Men screamed, clinging desperately to the beasts. Bodies flew across my vision, flailing arms and kicking legs. Flashes of movement as my own stomach lurched, my fingers tangling in my horse's mane. Rushed words, as soothing as I could make them, flowed from my lips. Out of the corner of my eyes I watched as men were dragged across the ground, crushed and trampled by their own steeds._

_My breath was scarping against my throat. The thrum of my blood in my ears became all that I heard. And then, her voice, pleading for me, so teasing and sweet._

_**“K** **á** **no, K** **á** **no, leave this fight. Come back to me. Do you not tire of his constant warring? Come back to me, K** **á** **no...”**_

_It had been Ages since last I had seen her face, heard her voice. I could still picture her, in those last moments we saw one another. Her eyes were burning, bright and angry, as the ships pushed off from he shores of Alqualondë, and I left her forever. I felt sick at the memory, my own eyes stung, pickling with tears. To hear her, **my wife** , asking for my return, willing to forgive me and take me back into her arms..._

_**It isn't real.** _

_The thought crashed over me like ice water, and in the next moment there I was again, clinging to my horse, the army I stood amongst before now replaced by a boiling panic of horses and men. Just as I came back into myself, however, just as I managed to finally calm my horse, the sky went dark. A shadow passed over us, a distant cawing grew louder and louder. As I turned my eyes towards the sky, a churning black mass crashed over us. Thrashing wings and reaching talons, bodies battering against my own. A mad wave of iridescent black filled my vision, blinding me. My head ducked down, my hands rose to protect my face. My horse reared back again, I didn't move fast enough._

_I was falling..._

 

 

_The scents of smoke and burning wood curled around my nose. I could see once more, solid ground lay beneath my feet. My chest still rose and fell with the rapid, shallow breaths of fear.I reached up, hands spreading over my chest and limbs, tracing them out as though to ensure I was all there. I caught folds of fabric, thick, fine velvet, cloth-of-scarlett..._

_**What was this?** _

_I stood in the midst of a great hall, the likes of which I had not seen for centuries. Surrounding me, the soft murmur of voices and the press of bodies. Men and women dressed in rich clothing dyed in jewel like colors. A long table of dark wood stretched before me, and there at the head of it, recognizable by his bearing as much as anything else, sat a King. He leaned back against the table, fingers dancing across the lip of a wine goblet, his brows knotting together as he stared down._

_My eyes followed the path of his. And that was when I saw them. A Mirror in every way to the company of Noblemen seated around me. They were not Men. They were not **Elves**. Ai! I am not sure how to even begin to describe – They were as ink drawings come to **life**. From their faces to their limbs, their features were all long and elegant and stylized. Their brows were like the flourishing flick of a pen, their hair like flows of dark water down their backs. They dressed all in rough wool, black as the void and their skin was as pale and glowing as moonlight._

_At their forefront sat two young men._

_The first was no more than a_ **boy,** _really – seated cross legged on the floor, crouching over a map. His hair was a wild, greasy mass, hanging over his face as he leaned down, reached for a stone cup at his side, sipping at it, before murmuring something to his companion beside him. It was a language that was...I did not **know** it, and yet it was as familiar to me as the sound of wind through the trees and the rattle of leaves. The other young man was a few years older, blond, dressed in mail and the same black wool the boy wore. He regarded his companion with a protective familiarity that sent a sharp pang through my gut, reminding me of my brothers._

_It was so quiet as the boy spoke, the snap and crackle of the fire that lit the hall seemed to echo through it._

_Finally, the two young man finished commiserating. The blond nodded, before turning to the king. In faltering french, he said, “The land between the Tweed and the Trent. That will be retribution enough for my lord.”_

_As if in emphasis of this fact, I heard the scratch of a pen against parchment. My eyes fell back to the boy, a pen resting in his hand as he drew two dark lines across the map. **England.** I knew it so well, the shape of the country. It was unmistakable to me, who had walked Britain's shores for the past several centuries. I had watched this land grow and change as the years had gone by, and yet this...I would surely remember **this...**_

_The boy glanced up, and I finally got a good look at his face. The set of his jaw, the glint in his dark eyes, the line of his nose...he was younger here, yes, but he was unmistakable. My breath caught. This was the very stranger who had shared my shelter from the rain._

 

_The scene changed. And then changed. And then changed. Again, and again, and again. As my eyes met those of the stranger images crashed over me, through my mind, drowning me in them. A city ageing and decaying, sinking into the sea. A village frozen in time, even the river struck with stillness, brought suddenly to life again. A man, a **corpse** , decaying and rotting, now moving as though he were alive, now begging, **pleading** , for mercy. Statues speaking and coming to life. Giants, beings prowling across the battlefield made entirely of a churning, cawing gathering of ravens. A young girl being led by a young man towards her family one moment, suddenly finding herself alone the next. A young man on a black throne, hidden in the shadows._

_Again the world dipped into black. Again the scene changed. A mist laden forest, the sun just beginning to rise. In the distance, a procession as fine as any ever seen, disappearing into the woods, banners flapping behind them. A clear picture I could finally make of it. A field of white blazoned with a raven-in-flight._

 

I fell to my knees, slumped to the floor. Blood thrummed through my ears, my breath scraping at my throat.

“You...” I finally managed to gasp out, “What... _how?_ What Vala, what Maia...what servant of Morringotto – ”

Even as I spoke, my eyes rose, and I realized he was gone.

The crackle and snap of leaves and old twigs in the fire felt all the louder in the silence of that room. Dead leaves of dried up ivy scrapped against the ground as I began pushing myself to my feet. And that was when I noticed, for the first time, the way the ivy curled across the floor. I could not help but see it, my eye was drawn towards as to letters across a page. Indeed, the longer and longer I looked the more it seemed to me that it was _exactly_ what I was looking at. As though these splayed vines were some strange alphabet and if I only looked long enough, closely enough they would reveal their meaning to me...

And then in that moment the air seemed to shift, like a door opening somewhere I could not see. Everything simply fell into place.

_“Until we meet again.”_ The words were scrawled out before my very eyes

If I was drowning before, that was enough to break me through to the surface, to bring me to myself once more. _“Again?”_

A sharp chill sprung through my body. Shaking my head, I spun away, leaning down to gather up my harp and leave. A solid object, _real_. For a moment I pressed it against my chest, my fingers absently tracing over the carvings, the paths of vines and twining tree branches so familiar I had them memorized. That was when I froze. I sucked in a sharp breath, my fingers gone stiff, as slowly I peered down to truly _look_ at my harp.

In the upper corner, among the carved branches and lines, there perched a raven.

 

~*~

 

_...Soon after, the rain came to an end. I brought myself into town, here just to....just to surround myself with people. With their solidness, with their mundanity. To convince myself in some strange way that I am not going mad. To convince myself in some strange way that I have merely woken up from a dream, that I will not be spirited off to some strange world. Some alternate version of England that is not my own._

Maglor sighed, staring down at what he'd just written before shaking his head and setting the journal aside. The buzz of conversation from downstairs still curled it's way up towards Maglor's room, growing only more lively as the night wore on, as it's creators only fell deeper into their cups. Maglor's eyes drifted towards the door. He began picking, absently, at the cover of his journal.

_Another world to explore..._

The idea tugged treacherously at his mind.

Madness, that was what it was.

A mad idea that his father and brothers would salivate over. _Ai_ , he could imagine Atar, that glint that would spark in his eye at the possibilities of it. He could remember, Ages past. He and his family would explore the Blessed realm to it's furthest reaches. His brothers would whisper among themselves of far-off Endorë, even before Morgoth had brought strife amongst their people.

“ _Someday, I will go there.”_

The madness and foolishness of youth. An eagerness to be gone, to see new things, to _experience._

No. Maglor shook himself, pushing himself to his feet again, He strode over towards the window, staring out across the shore.

He had been restless for longer than he could remember. It was only growing more and more so with each passing year, as they grew further and further from the world he once knew. Maglor tugged at his hair.

_I am_ _tired,_ The elf told himself. _I have done more than enough in my lifetime. Seen more than enough..._

Fëanorian curiosity sank it's teeth all the deeper into his mind. And then, a sharp _clank!_ Like the rap of a hand against glass rang through the room. Maglor's gaze traced back towards the mirror hung on the nearest wall.

A moment passed. And then another. The elf narrowed his eyes. With a tentative step forward, he began to edge back over towards the mirror.

Nothing was there. Only his own suspicious gaze tracing over the edges where the glass met it's frame reflected back to him. Maglor frowned.

In the worls of the wood's grain, the instructions were written, telling him exactly what to do.

Glancing back at the room behind him, Maglor let out a low curse. He turned back to the mirror, taking in a shaking breath.

“I will return.” He swore to himself.

And then he strode right through the mirror.

 


End file.
